Daniik Miraad
by dovahgriin
Summary: Iora Allegra Septima is a mortal with the soul of a Dovah. Known as Dragonborn to those who live in the realms of Man and Mer, she is a doom-driven hero destined to face Alduin, first-born of Akatosh, in battle. She never asked for this. *Also published on AO3 as dovahgriin*
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1: Unbound I

Iora wakes with the rain. It drips down her face, soaking her hair and her clothes. Her hands are bound behind her back, and there is a filthy rag stuffed into her mouth. It tastes of blood and earth. She spits it out, and the gag she makes has the other occupants of the cart turning towards her.

"You're finally awake," the man across from her says. "You were trying to cross the border, right? Walked straight into that ambush, just like us."

"Who are you?" Her mouth tastes like death.

"I am Ralof of Riverwood. And who are you, Breton?"

"Iora Allegra." She sees no reason to lie to this man, but she also does not wish to explain her extensive family history, either.

"Well met, Iora Allegra."

She nods but otherwise does not respond, instead opting to look at her surroundings. The cart is rickety and uncomfortable, splinters digging into Iora's thighs. A man in the armor of the Imperial Legion sits on the driver's bench, eyes on the road ahead. Another two Imperial soldiers ride massive destriers on either side of the cart, guarding its occupants.

Iora looks at the man beside her. He is huge, easily two heads taller than her, with shoulders like a bear. The bearskin cloak only adds to this impression. He, like she was, is gagged. The third man, a dirty, dark-haired Plainsman says something, and Ralof snaps at him. The Reacher pales considerably.

"Ulfric? The Jarl of Windhelm? But, if they've captured you… _Oh gods._ Where are they taking us?"

Ralof shakes his head. "I don't know where we're going, but Sovngarde awaits."

The Plainsman thief (for he is a thief — he openly admits to stealing a horse) panics and puts his head between his knees, arms wrapped around his middle. Underneath the sounds of the cart, horses and soldiers, Iora can barely make out the sound of him praying.

"Shut up back there," the Imperial driver calls back to them; Ralof rolls his eyes. The prisoners remain silent for the remaining duration of the cart ride.

Ralof speaks again as they pass beneath the bridge-gate of a Nordic town. He names the town as _Helgen,_ mentioning that he used to court a girl that once lived there. A chill wind descends from the peaks of the Jerall Mountains, sending shivers down Iora's spine. Ralof notices and smirks.

"Not used to the cold, eh? You Bretons have thinner blood than us Nords."

"I think they dosed me with a magical suppressant — I would be able to warm myself, otherwise," Iora replies sharply, teeth chattering.

"You're a mage, then? What're you doing in Skyrim, of all places?"

"I was sent here to scope out potential sites of great magical power by the Synod, and to possibly join the College of Winterhold. Now, though, I'm thinking that no amount of coin or knowledge is worth being in this sun-forsaken country." She pauses. "No offense intended."

The blonde Nord snorts. "None taken. I'd recommend getting out of the country as soon as possible," he nods towards the headsman's block before the main tower, "but I think that escaping a war is the least of your worries."

Iora goes hot, then cold, then hot again. _I am being driven to my death._ Something inside her rails at that thought, screaming for _fire, ice, lightning,_ for the destructive forces of nature to come to her aid. She drops off of the back of the wagon, stands in a line before a handsome Nordic legionnaire and his commanding officer.

No help comes.

"Who are you?" The legionnaire looks her up and down with a raised brow. Iora scowls at the inspection.

Raising her chin, she replies in a haughty tone, "I am Iora Allegra of House Telvanni. Release me now and you will be rewarded handsomely." The last sentence is a bit of a fib, but what the Nord does not know will not harm him. At least, that is what Iora tells herself. But she is no fool. As the cart had rolled into Helgen, she herself had seen the Thalmor ambassador. Revealing her maternal ancestry now is akin to signing her own death warrant in the eyes of both the Empire and the Dominion. The Nord looks to his superior for guidance.

"Captain, what should we do? If she speaks the truth…" The Imperial woman casts a disdainful glance at the legionnaire and the prisoner.

"Same as the rest. Send her to the block." A wave of fear washes over Iora. The Nordic legionnaire, to his credit, looks remorseful.

"I am sorry. We will make sure your remains are returned to your family. Follow the captain, prisoner." Iora's scowl deepens, but any move other than that instructed will be interpreted as an attack. The horse thief, it seems, does not appreciate this fact and sprints towards the north-facing gate.

He is shot down on order of the captain. The heavily armored woman then turns to Iora, who did not move to join the Stormcloaks. Her lip curls.

"Move it, half-breed. You cannot delay the inevitable." Iora stumbles when the Imperial pushes her between the shoulderblades. A low, rumbling sound echoes from over the mountains. The legionnaire freezes midstep.

"What was that?"

General Tullius, in his thick Bruma brogue, dismisses the Nord. "It is nothing. Carry on." A priestess of Arkay begins to speak. A Stormcloak soldier steps forward, a sneer on his face.

"Enough! It seems we are braver than any of you milk-drinkers. I will face my death like a true Nord." He strides forward and kneels before the axeman. His neck rests on the bloodstained block. "My ancestors are smiling on me, Imperials. Can you say the same?" The man's eyes are locked onto the Nordic legionnaire, who goes pale and looks away.

The axeman's blade whistles through the air. Blood spurts from the stump left, and the corpse's head falls neatly into a red-stained basket.

The Imperial captain points at Iora, "Next, the Breton!"

The rumble can be heard again, this time much, much closer. Iora hesitates, palms slick with sweat. The legionnaire once again wonders what the source of the sound was. Ralof prods Iora in the back.

"Come on now. I'm right behind you."

She goes.

She does not see the monster swooping out of the mountains, does not see the terrible eyes and fangs. She does, however, see the Imperial soldiers go deathly pale and hear the much-lauded General Tullius draw his blade and call for archers and battlemages. A roar unlike any Iora has heard before sets the ground shaking, fire falling from the sky and stones from the main tower falling loose from the mortar.

Another roar, and her vision goes black. She comes to with Ralof's arm around her waist and Ulfric Stormcloak is ushering them inside a yet-standing tower. Just as the Jarl of Windhelm shuts the heavy wood door — _wood does nothing to protect against fire, you fools,_ Iora shrills in her head — a flaming rock crashes into the earth, shaking the ground beneath their feet and sending the Breton woman tumbling out of Ralof's grasp. Her breath leaves her chest in a soft _oouf._

Iora blinks, tears forming in her silvery-blue eyes against the smoke. Ulfric shouts something, voice tinged with authority and edged in panic. Ralof hoists Iora up.

"... an you walk?" Her ears are ringing still. She nods. Together, they limp up the stone stairs of the tower. The air rumbles, and the stone wall Iora uses as an extra support bursts open, sending a Stormcloak soldier tumbling back down the stairs. In the years to come, she will claim to have been able to hear the man's neck snap in two as he fell, but if that is not true, there will be none alive to deny her words.

An enormous, scaly black snout can be seen through the new opening. Ralof stumbles back, his fist wrapped in Iora's tunic as he yanks her back, yelling. Iora can barely hear him. She _yearns_ to get closer, and she pulls against Ralof's grip. His fingers slip, but that brief moment is all she needs to wrench herself out of his grip; likewise, it is all the beast needs to beat its wings and soar into the sky, roaring.

Tears roll down her face, and Iora lets out a despairing wail. Something within her _mourns_ being unable to fly with the creature. _A dragon,_ she realizes deep within her head. _That is a dragon, like in the legends and prophecies._ Something inside her chest resonates with that knowledge.

She blinks back to the present when someone shakes her. It is Ralof. He says something, then points out of the dragon-made hole at the burning thatch of a house. Through the flames, Iora can see an attic floor. _Jump,_ Ralof mouths at her. Without thinking, Iora jumps.

She crashes to the floor, which miraculously holds. Flames singe her hair, sending it curling into a frizzy mess by her cheeks. The fire roars and leaps the hole her descent created in the roof. The Stormcloaks do not follow. Iora shudders and picks herself up off of the floor. Her palms sting where splinters dig into the tender skin.

She stumbles across the floor and finds a hole in the floor where a support beam had collapsed earlier. Sparks burn tiny holes into her clothes. Her feet _burn_ when she lands in a pile of smoking embers. Iora feels tears roll down her cheeks, leaving streaks in the soot. An Imperial soldier — the one from before, the Nord — grabs her arm and pulls her back from the main street. A second later, flames hotter than anything she's ever felt before fly down the avenue. _He saved my life._

The legionnaire confers with an older man, who has his hand on the shoulder of a filthy young boy. The child looks to be, at most, eight or nine years old. The legionnaire nods once at the man, and turns back to Iora.

"Stay close to me if you want to live," he says. Iora follows him quietly, still not quite believing what she's seeing, even as an archer is engulfed in flames right in front of her. The woman dies screaming. The scent of flesh burning has Iora's mouth watering and bile rising bitter in her throat.

The legionnaire follows through on his promise, pushing Iora to the side when the dragon - _a dragon!_ \- lands on the wall above them and roasts a battlemage across the road. He says something about staying close to the walls, and Iora nods, but truly, her eyes are on the dragon, the first seen in a thousand years. She wants to stay and watch the beast, but the legionnaire tugs her away, towards the keep.

Her surprise is palpable when Ralof appears. Ulfric is not with him, and Iora wonders where he has gone. The two Nords stare each other down. Iora looks between them. She loudly clears her throat. The sound seems to break the two men out of whatever pissing contest they were locked in, and Ralof shakes his head and spits on the ground at the legionnaire's feet. The Nord leading Iora tugs her into the keep after him. He shuts the heavy wooden door behind her.

Iora slumps against the wall. She is exhausted. Nothing could have prepared her for this, and she voices as much, wry amusement coloring her words. The legionnaire introduces himself as Quaestor Hadvar Erikssen of Riverwood and offers to cut Iora's bonds. She gratefully accepts his help, massaging her wrists in places where the rope had rubbed them raw. Hadvar hisses in sympathy when he sees the wounds, muttering unflattering things under his breath about the person who had tied them.

"I am sorry, but I do not have any poultices on me. There hopefully will be some farther in the keep."

Iora shrugs. "It is fine. As soon as the magicka suppressant wears off, I will be able to heal them myself."

"You're a mage?"

The young woman snorts in a very unladylike manner. "I am a Breton _and_ the daughter of a Telvanni wizard, Quaestor. My very _blood_ is chock-full of magic." She pauses, a thought striking her. "Is my being a mage going to be an issue for you, Quaestor?"

Hadvar shakes his head. "No. So long as you keep your spells aimed _away_ from my head, it should not be a problem."

Iora feels the barest dregs of magicka trickle back into herself as the magicka poison fades away. Her hands glow weakly, and the warmth of restoration magic spreads over her wrists. Hadvar watches in fascination. When Iora sends a questioning look his way, he flushes.

"I was never any good at magic," he says in response. "But it always fascinated me, to the chagrin of my parents."

Iora nods thoughtfully in agreement. "You Nords do not have the strongest affinity for the arcane. But it does speak well of you, that you are willing to work with magic-users, rather than shun them like so many of your countrymen do."

They scrounge around the room, dropping coins into pockets and — in Iora's case — stripping out of filthy clothes and donning the clean leathers of the Imperial Legion. Hadvar looks away as she dresses, then helps her with the many straps and buttons on the uniform. He laughs when she wonders out loud _why_ there are so many buttons. After she is properly outfitted, Iora ties her singed clothes into a bundle and tucks it beneath her arm. Hadvar hands her an iron sword, heavier than she's used to.

"What am I meant to do with this?"

"Well, swing it, for one. Use it to defend yourself, maybe. Magicka is not an unending fountain of power, if I remember correctly." Hadvar's tone is drier than the deserts of Elsweyr. Iora rolls her eyes and hands the sword back to him.

"I do not need a corporeal weapon," she informs the Nord tartly. Her hands go out to her sides and glow a deep purple. Out of thin air — or what seems to be thin air to the quaestor — twin curved daggers appear in the Breton's hands. They glow with an otherworldly light, humming softly. Hadvar moves back a step, eyes on the Oblivion-summoned blades.

"You are a conjurer, then?"

Iora's expression is bland as she replies, "Amongst other things." She pauses. "I suppose you could call me a jack of all trades, master of none. Do you have that saying in Skyrim?"

Hadvar nods in acknowledgement, but now keeps a fair distance between himself and the Breton sorcerer. Iora rolls her eyes, but does not begrudge him his reaction. Even in more tolerant circles, conjuring is looked down upon as a… less savory school of magic, mostly due to the — somewhat unreasonable, in Iora's humble opinion — stigma against necromancy. She follows him down the hall.


	2. Chapter 2

The first group of Nords that Iora and Hadvar run into pose little threat to the two. While Hadvar keeps their attention, Iora strafes to the right, cloaked in shadows. She gets close to the elder of the two soldiers facing off against Hadvar, a Plainswoman with lines etched into her skin and a tan from working the fields of Whiterun, and neatly slices through the woman's jugular. Blood runs in rivulets down Iora's arm where she holds the woman still. The Breton murmurs a quiet apology to the Stormcloak as she lowers her to the ground, then turns a half-circle and vomits into a basket as Hadvar decapitates the other Stormcloak.

Calloused hands hold Iora's auburn hair back as she gags once more. Her skin is clammy, sweat breaking out along her hairline.

"Easy now," the legionnaire soothes. "That was your first time killing, wasn't it?"

Iora shakes her head, then nods. "Yes, and no. I've dealt with undead and beasts, but never a cognizant human being."

"It gets easier," Hadvar says. "Though whether or not that is a good thing, I do not know."

"I figured as much." She stands on wobbly legs, leaning briefly on Hadvar as she wipes her mouth. He steadies her, then releases his hold on her, stepping back. Iora nods her thanks.

They continue quietly on until Hadvar hauls her out of the way of the collapsing roof.

"Watch the stonework, Iora," Hadvar admonishes. "Whatever that dragon is doing outside is not doing the keep's structure any favors." As if in agreement, dust sifts down onto their heads, making Iora sneeze violently.

"Alright, I get it. We should keep moving."

Together, they fight off two more Stormcloaks in a room branching off the main hallway. Hadvar finds a couple of unbroken bottles of healing potion on the corpses. A door from it leads down into the bowels of the keep, and Hadvar stops short of the archway into what turns out to be a dungeon.

"The torture room. Gods, I hate this."

"Then why do you go along with it?"

"What else am I to do? Speak up and get discharged in return?" Hadvar's hand grips the pommel of his blade tightly, but he makes no move to draw it.  
"Yes," Iora stomps her foot, magic flaring up around her." That is _exactly_ what you are supposed to do! By not speaking up, you are condoning this behavior and perpetuating it. If you feel it is wrong, then _say something,_ you — !" She turns slightly and punches the wall, her growl of frustration morphing into a yelp of pain.

Hadvar frowns, moving towards her. "Are you alright?"

Iora's reply is lost in a hiss of pain. "No. I think I fractured something." She cradles her fist to her chest, mouth downturned. "Ouch."

"Can you heal it?"

"I'm good, but I'm not _that_ good, Quaestor." Iora sighs and looks at Hadvar with a rueful grin. "I'm afraid I will not be much help if we encounter any more adversaries."

"You _could_ use some work on your form. Weren't you taught how to defend yourself without magic?"

"With a blade, yes. Not without one." She sighs, and gestures towards the exit of the hallway. "Shall we continue on? I'd like to get my hand fixed as soon as I can."

Hadvar nods, and leads her into the dungeon. Her breath catches in her throat. Hadvar had not been lying when he had called it a torture chamber.

It is not a very large room, but that does not matter when the whole of it reeks with despair. A rack stands in the corner closest to where the two enter the room, and on it lays the corpse of a Nordic woman, the skin on her chest peeled back. She had been flayed (alive, by the contorted expression on the corpse's face), and the sight is horrific. Portions of its flesh are blackened by poison and flames. Hadvar goes very pale, and Iora closes her eyes, willing back her nausea.

"Oh," she says, voice very small in the quiet of the room. "I _really_ regret coming to Skyrim."

"Can you burn the body?" A voice comes from the far corner of the room, and Iora sends up a magelight in response. She is surprised to see Ralof, surrounded by the bodies of both Imperial and Stormcloak soldiers. He has one hand pressed against his belly, red staining his armor.

"I… yes." Hadvar does not move to stop her as she sets the body alight within a barrier, letting the corpse burn hotter than it typically might if she were just casting a fire spell at it. The three of them watch the flames rage and flicker and die to a few small embers before Iora turns to Hadvar, hand extended. "Give me a healing potion."

He hesitates, avoiding her eyes, and Iora _tsks_ at him. "I cannot aid and abet an enemy of the Empire," is the excuse he gives. The Breton woman rolls her eyes.

"Then give _me_ the potion, Quaestor. Once it leaves your possession, you have no control over how it is used." When the Nord _still_ hesitates, Iora takes the matter into her own hands by slipping slender fingers into the pouch at his waist and fishing out a vial of red liquid. She pops the cork with her nail and kneels beside Ralof, holding the vial to his mouth. The Stormcloak greedily drinks the potion, sighing in relief as the healing magic does its work on his injury. He looks up at her, pale eyes hazy with lingering pain.

"Thank you, Iora Allegra," he says softly. She shrugs.

"It is what anyone _should_ do," Iora mutters, pushing herself to her feet and dusting off her knees. She holds her undamaged hand out to the warrior. He looks between she and Hadvar skeptically and does not take it. "Will you come with us? I'm injured, and I would really prefer to not die today, by dragon _or_ fanatics from either side of this civil war."

Hadvar levels a cool look at Ralof. Iora's muscles tense as she watches the two men. She would not be surprised in the least if they began to fight, but she prayed that would not be the case. Both have helped her thus far and seem fairly decent, if one ignored the obvious rift resulting from the civil war.

After what seems like hours, the two Nords nod stiffly to each other.

"I will join you," Ralof announces quietly, looking to Iora in the gloomy light of the dungeon. "I owe you a life-debt, and we Nords do not forget that sort of thing easily. But know this — as soon as we leave this place, I _will_ need to return to Windhelm. This war is bigger than any other issue that may appear. Skyrim deserves to be free."

Iora nods slowly. "Very well, Ralof of Riverwood. I accept your conditions." She looks to Hadvar, who stands silent at her side, lips pressed tightly together in displeasure. "Do not kill him," she requests.

His eyes are cold when he glances down at her. "I will not." Iora brightens at his words.

"Excellent! Now, we should probably get a move in. There is a breeze coming from that hall," she gestures vaguely behind herself. Hadvar pulls Ralof to his feet. The Stormcloak grabs a steel warhammer from the ground, testing its weight in his hands before nodding once to himself.

"You lead, Rolfssen," Hadvar growls at Ralof. The blonde shrugs and sends Iora a grin before making his way into the branching hall. Iora follows him after a nudge from Hadvar. Hadvar brings up the rear of their little party, ears open for any dangers that may come up from behind.

The keep creaks above them, sending more dust down onto their heads. Iora sneezes again, rubbing her nose. Ralof snorts out a laugh. The Breton sticks her tongue out at his back. Hadvar rolls his eyes.

The next room they come into is a hollowed-out cavern, all rough stone and stalactites on the roof and man-made walkways below. A stream bubbles through the center of the room, destination through a wrought-iron grate unknown. The room is empty; not of corpses, but of the living. Several bodies lay where they had fallen, blood pooling beneath them as the trio picks their way through the carnage. Ralof waves them on as he walks across a rickety wooden bridge. Iora eyes it warily.

"That does not look stable."

"Come on, now," Ralof cajoles, halfway cross already. "It's not that bad. See?" He jumps one time, twice, causing the bridge to bend underneath the strain. Sending a cocky smirk Iora's way, Ralof bounces once more and —

The bridge collapses beneath him.

An alarmed shout leaves Hadvar. Iora scrambles to the edge of the drop. Thankfully, it is not a large one. Ralof sits at the bottom, rubbing his lower back.

"Dibella's _fucking_ tits, that was painful," he grumbles. Iora bites back a smile. If he is well enough to talk, the injury cannot be more than a bruise in her experience, which is a good thing. Iora, after all, is no great healer.

"I _told_ you the bridge didn't look stable," she calls down to him. He makes a rude gesture with his fingers, startling a laugh out of the Breton mage. "Hold on, Ralof of Riverwood. I know a spell that can ease your pain."

"No, no thank you. The injury is not that bad," he waves off her offer. She frowns a little, brows bunching together, but the expression is gone before Ralof can spot it.

"At least let me help you up, serah." Hadvar helps lower her into the hole and then jumps down after her, the leather of his boots making next to no sound. Iora again holds her hand out to the Nord, and this time he gratefully takes it.

"Thanks," he says, a small smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"It is nothing." Iora toes the broken planks, peering at them in the dim light. "See, I was right. The boards are rotted through in the center." She points out the decaying areas on the wood.

"Alright, no more jumping, _Ma._ I get it."

"I'm not _nearly_ old enough to be your mother, son of Skyrim."

"Doesn't mean you don't act like her, though."

"... Whatever."

Hadvar ushers them out of the tunnel, the three of them sloshing through a tiny stream running through the natural cavern. Their footsteps echo in the cave, and every stone that they disturb sounds like a landslide.

"Well, if there is something ahead, we've surely made our presence known to it," Iora grumbles.

"Ah, don't be such a milk-drinker. Anything we come across, Hadvar and I can handle."

"I happen to hate drinking milk, Nord."

"What? But don't you like cheese?"

"I said I hate drinking it, not —" Iora's retort is cut off when Hadvar abruptly stops them.

"Shh! See those webs? There's frostbite spiders around here." He motions to the walls and ceiling of the cave. White, sticky web covers most of it, and sways gently in a gentle breeze. Iora shivers. Spiders were never her favorite creature in Morrowind, and _those_ were not the giant ones they apparently have in Skyrim.

"Do we sneak? Or…?" Iora's voice trails off as Hadvar takes point, shield up.

"Stay behind me. I'll keep the worst of it off of you, and feel free to sling fire at the beasts."

"Just don't hit me, would you?" Ralof quips beside her.

"I have better aim than you give me credit fo-" Iora stops speaking with a squeal as the most enormous spider that she has ever seen drops down from a hole in the ceiling. She calls fire to her hands without thinking about it and sets the creature alight. It hisses at her and spits blue-green venom at her face. Iora reaches to cover her face but, luckily for her, the poison never reaches its mark, instead splattering across Hadvar's iron shield.

"Thanks," she whispers as Ralof makes quick work of the spider with his warhammer. Hadvar glances at her over his shoulder.

"You're welcome."

Thankfully, the only other spiders they encounter are small enough that a well-placed stomp crushes their skulls. Ralof and Hadvar do most of the squishing, leaving Iora free to inspect the room. Egg sacs hang from the ceiling and rest against the walls, and Iora remembers her father mentioning that spider eggs are good for brewing poisons that inhibit an enemy's magicka and damage their stamina. So, she does the only natural thing to do — she braces herself and sticks her hand into the egg sac nearest to her with a _squelch._ The sticky feeling of web around her fingers sets her hair on end, but Iora manages to fish out a handful of intact eggs. Pleased with herself, Iora slips the eggs into her makeshift bag and shoulders it once more.

Ralof saw what she had done, and he looks a bit on the green side. "How could you _do_ that?"

"The same way _you_ have no trouble at all squishing the things that come out of them," Iora says softly as she wipes her hand on her borrowed armor. "Everyone has their own strengths. Mine just so happens to be sticking my hands where they are not wanted."

Ralof laughs at that but leaves her be, taking point as the ragtag group proceeds farther into the belly of the caves beneath Helgen. They all take much more care watching where they step now, ears straining for any sound that might come from a creature other than themselves. There is nothing, aside from the steady flow of water in a divot in the uneven floor.

"Dead end," Ralof grunts, taking a sharp turn to the right. Iora follows close on his heels, which turns out to not be such a fantastic idea when Ralof stops abruptly, knocking Iora onto her rear with a soft _oomph._ Ralof turns to give her an incredulous look, to which she responds with an eye-roll.

"There is a bear, just ahead," he whispers. Hadvar peers into the gloom behind Ralof and confirms it.

"What do you think we should do, Iora Allegra?" Ralof catches the Breton's eyes with his own. Iora frowns.

"Why are you asking me? I do not know anything about Skyrim's fauna. You _both_ are natives, and know what to expect." She steadily first looks at Ralof, then at Hadvar. "So, what do the two of _you_ suggest?"

"I say we sneak by it," Hadvar says softly, hand idly tracing a smattering of scars on his arm. Looking closer, Iora sees that they are claw marks. "Bears in Skyrim are grumpy at best, and downright invincible at worst. Not that they can't be defeated in battle, but…" He trails off, looking anywhere but the faces of his companions.

"Then we sneak by. I'm by no means able to properly cast with just one arm working," Iora decides, "And I can't cast _pacify_ yet. My illusion spells need work."

As they begin to sneak, Iora spots a bottle in an overturned cart and snags it. The label has her smiling giddily. _Black-Briar Reserve._ She tucks her treasure beneath her arm and brings up the rear after Hadvar. She does not really believe bears can be all _that_ terrible, but she is quite content to follow behind the Nordic men.

They pass the bear with little issue.

"I can see sunlight ahead!" Ralof calls, picking up his pace. Hadvar follows suit, glancing back to Iora. She stands upright. There is a breeze, bringing with it fresh air and the scent of dust after rain.

A bellow sounds behind her. The smile falls from her face. The bear has awoken, and it is not happy to see Iora standing in plain sight. The bear roars again. Iora screams in response, tripping backwards as she tries to find higher ground. Hadvar shouts the famed (and feared) battlecry of the Nords and rushes the bear from the side. His shield smashes into its ribs with an audible _crack._

The bear stumbles and turns to face the warrior with a roar. Hadvar circles, forcing the bear to expose its back to Iora (and, subsequently, Ralof). The blonde Stormcloak moves between the bear and the mage, warhammer at the ready. He waits, knees bent, as Hadvar faces off against the beast. The bear snarls a challenge as it rises up on its hind legs, revealing its true height. Hadvar has to tilt his head back to look the bear in the face. Ralof's muscles tense, hinting at his plan before he leaps onto the bear's back as it bares down onto the legionnaire, the pointed end of his warhammer driving into the back of the beast's neck.

The bear bellows in pain, falling to its knees. Ralof rolls to his feet. Hadvar struggles underneath the weight of the bear, pushing it away with his shield before performing an elegant whirl-and-stab, driving his steel sword through the bear's skull. The animal makes a surprised sound, like it could not believe that it was dead, and then it does finally die. Hadvar slumps against a stalagmite and Ralof whoops.

"Now _that_ was a fight, Erikssen! I haven't had my blood pumping like that in a long time." He bounces on the balls of his feet as a grin spreads across his face.

"A good fight," Hadvar says faintly. "Right."

Iora clambers down from the rock shelf that she'd ensconced herself on at the beginning of the fight. She made a beeline for Hadvar, a minor healing spell glowing golden in her uninjured hand. He accepts her help with a small smile but he still looks far too pale in Iora's opinion, so she forces him to drink a healing potion. At the very least, it brings some color back into his cheeks so Iora counts it as a victory.

"Ralof, help Hadvar up," Iora orders, already moving to examine the bear's corpse. She summons one of her Oblivion blades and neatly slices the claws off and pops the bear's eyes out of its sockets. When Ralof gives her a strange look, she just shrugs, "What? They're very useful alchemy ingredients. I have to have a way to make money since the Synod likely thinks I'm dead."

"That is… a very practical mindset," Ralof says, one eyebrow raised. Iora practically glows at his words.

"Thank you, serah." The blonde Nord looks slightly taken aback at this, but shakes it off with a shrug as he helps Hadvar stand upright. Iora moves to Hadvar's other side, hovering. The quaestor waves her off.

"By the Eight, woman, Ralof was right. You _do_ hover like a mother hen." A smile plays on his lips belying his sharp words, but Iora still feels stung. Her mouth tightens into the falsest smiles she has ever given anyone and she falls into step behind the two men, making sure that nothing trips up the legionnaire.


	3. Chapter 3

p id="docs-internal-guid-dba4966f-073a-448a-a29d-8a50ea6c2943" dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"They exit the cave, eyes on the sky. The dragon is nowhere in sight./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Must've flown off," Ralof remarks. Hadvar makes a noise of agreement. Iora nods, even though they cannot see it, and follows them as they make their way down the path to the road. "That road down there leads to Riverwood, where Hadvar and I grew up together," the blonde tells Iora, gesturing to a glorified footpath down the hill. "My sister lives there, as does his uncle. He can rest there before leaving for Solitude."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Will you be coming with us?" Hadvar turns his head to look at Iora. She shrugs./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Perhaps. I would like to get to a city as soon as possible to find a proper healer, though," she replies quietly. Ralof sends her a questioning look and she explains that she believed she had fractured her hand when punching a wall in the keep. He laughs loudly./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""You — You punched a wall, lass? Why in Talos' name would you do that?" /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I lost control of my temper, believe it or not, son of Skyrim. It was either that, or electrocute this one over here," she jerks her head towards Hadvar. The man in question gives her a wry look./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Well, I can understand that, at least. He usually needs a few kicks to the head before he makes any sort of decision. Or, at least, he used to. Maybe time has softened his stubborn skull."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"They reach the road, and Hadvar turns to Iora fully, shrugging out of Ralof's grip. "The fork in the road here will either lead you to Falkreath," he points towards the south-east, "or Whiterun," he gestures in a north-west direction. "Riverwood is on the way to Whiterun, so Ralof and I could at least accompany you that far. There's a temple dedicated to Kynareth in the center of Whiterun, headed by a healer-priestess, so I'd recommend going there, rather than Falkreath. All that's there is an alchemist."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""... What kind of a city doesn't have a healer?" Iora is astounded at the apparent deficiency. In Morrowind, any city worthy of being called a city has at least one qualified healer in residence. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Falkreath is more of a glorified town," Ralof chips in, leaning against a boulder. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Iora runs a hand over her face. "I suppose you both are going to insist on having me come with you both to Riverwood, then?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The two men have enough presence of mind to look sheepish. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Well, yes," Hadvar starts. Ralof interrupts him./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""There are occupied bandit camps between here and both Falkreath and Riverwood, no matter what you decide. I think I speak for both Hadvar and myself when I say that I'd feel much better about it all if we could at least see you safely to Riverwood." Hadvar nods in agreement. Iora sighs./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Fine, I'll go to Riverwood with you. I imagine you'll want me to go on to inform the local lord of what happened, too, yes?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Local jarl," Hadvar corrects her with a smile. "But yes, it would be best to inform Balgruuf of what happened here today as soon as possible."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"With that said, the three of them make their way down to the main road. Hadvar and Ralof walked on either side of her. She is quiet, cradling her hand against her chest as the two men escorting her banter back and forth. A hawk cries mournfully overhead. A branch snaps in the woods to their right. Hadvar stops midstep. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Wolf," Ralof whispers. He pauses, cocking his head. "Two wolves."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"As if speaking the name summons the creatures, two enormous wolves rush out of the underbrush, snarling at the humans. The sunlight catches on their fur as it ripples in the air, turning the russet strands a burnished red-gold. Ralof brings his warhammer down with a yell. One wolf is downed, spine cracked in two. The other helps once as Hadvar brings his shield up and smashes its nose inwards. Viscera explodes onto the earth, turning the dirt into a slush of blood and brain./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Iora clicks her tongue at the mess. Wolf eyes are excellent night-eye ingredients, and it seems a waste for them to be smashed into paste. But two are better than none and she kneels next to the corpse with the intact head, summoning her dagger to her hand and pops the wolf's eyes cleanly out of the sockets. She looks up, feeling eyes on her back. Hadvar is staring at her, looking a bit green./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Why do you do that?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Why not?" She shrugs nonchalantly. "They are good in potions, and were not exactly common in Morrowind."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""You put them in potions? To drink?" Hadvar looks terribly disgusted at the thought. A small smile curves Iora's mouth, and she nods./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Yes. One of their more beneficial effects is limited night vision, not unlike what the Khajiit and Bosmer have naturally."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Huh." Hadvar is less green, now, and seems thoughtful. "I guess that would be useful…"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Iora nods again. "Yes, it really is, especially when exploring old ruins and caves." /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"They walk in silence after that, before coming to a stop at the crest of a hill. Ralof holds a hand to his face, shielding his eyes from the noonday sun as he points across the lake to a mountaintop draped in mists like a lace curtain. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""That ruin over there is called Bleak Falls Barrow. Old Nordic tomb, from the days of the Dragon Priests. This one," the blonde jerks his head at Hadvar, "used to think that the draugr would crawl down the mountain at night and snatch us from our beds."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Hadvar scowls at Ralof, cheeks tinted pink. "We were children, Ralof. What else was I supposed to do but believe my uncle?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Ralof just shrugs, an easy grin on his face. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Dragon Priests? What are those?" Iora looks between the two men, head cocked to the side. It is the first she has ever heard of 'dragon priests'. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""They were an order of Men who worshipped the dragons and did their bidding. There were eight in Skyrim, if I remember the right of it. Legend says that they became powerful draugr to serve their scaly masters, even in death." Hadvar shudders. "I've heard tell of one in Volskygge, a tomb between Solitude and Markarth, but that could just be a rumor."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Are draugr like the liches of Cyrodiil, Quaestor?" Hadvar looks pensive at Iora's question. He is silent as he thinks./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Yes and no," he finally says. "I can't claim to know how draugr are made, but I do know that liches were most often powerful sorcerers that wished to extend their lifespan unnaturally. Draugr are more like undead servants, I think. They can range from weak enough to down with a well-placed arrow to ones that can Shout like the Tongues of old."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Wait, what are 'tongues of old'? And what is so extraordinary about shouting?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"This time, Ralof answers her. "The Tongues were Nords, or maybe Atmorans, who could speak the dragon tongue. Not much is known about them now. A lot of Skyrim's history has been lost."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Hm." Iora picks her way over a fallen tree, tiptoeing across the length of the log. "So Tongues had the ability to speak as the dragons did. Was it magic?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Ralof blinks and says, "No."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Hadvar nods and says, "Yes."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Iora stops and stares at them both. "Well, which is it? It can't not be magic; dragons are inherently magical creatures, so it follows that a Shout would be a form of magic, no?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The two men look at each other as though the other has the answer. Neither speaks. Iora crosses her arms, wincing as she jostles her hand. A hawk circles above them to the southwest. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""... So nobody really knows what Shouting is, then?" The corners of Iora's mouth turn down as the Nords shrug and nod. "That is… unfortunate. Maybe the College has some books on it." She hops down from her perch, looking for all the world like some great brown bird. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""They will at least have historical texts on Skyrim's history," Hadvar consoles her. Iora's lips curve into a half-smile./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I hope that is true."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The trio makes good time on the road, pausing at a triad of upright stones that remind Iora of the Doomstones of Cyrodiil. Hadvar explains their purpose and names them Guardian Stones, saying that they have stood across the wilds of Skyrim since before history was recorded. Iora is inexplicably drawn to the stone engraved with the portrait of a wizard mid-cast. Her fingers connect with it, and the carving begins to glow with a bright cerulean light. A beam of something — Light? Magic? Magical light? Iora cannot tell — shoots up into the sky, or maybe comes down from the heavens. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I thought you might pick that one," Ralof says after she steps back. Both he and Hadvar brush their hands over the carving of a warrior, and they both seem to stand straighter, taller, after doing so./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Well, of course she did. She is a sorceress," Hadvar gently teases him. Ralof takes the ribbing with a good-natured smile./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"They continue onwards, now with Hadvar in the lead. His color is nearly completely restored, and Iora feels confident that he can go about without she or Ralof shadowing him. The air is fresh down by the river that flows into Lake Illinata. Birds chirp in the branches above the road, and occasionally Iora can spot deer and elk through the trees on the right-hand side of the road. In the calm spots of the river between the rapids, silvery scales of tiny fish catch the light of the sun's rays. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Hadvar and Ralof are surprisingly patient when she stops to pluck the petals off of the wild mountain flowers on the side of the road. Iora names the more common uses for them as she goes, not really caring if her escorts pay her any mind. Blue petals restore and fortify health. Red petals restore and fortify magicka pools. Purple restores energy and fortifies agility./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"They stop briefly as the buildings that make up Riverwood come into view. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""It would not be safe for me to be seen in Hadvar's presence," Ralof explains after Iora asks why they have stopped. "I will wait for the sun to set, or even the moon to rise, before I make my way in." Hadvar acknowledges this with a nod and turns towards the outskirts of Riverwood. The blonde Nord looks to Iora. "Tell Gerdur — that's my sister — at the mill that I am alive and well, thanks to you. She will doubtless help you, if Alvor — Hadvar's uncle — proves to be difficult. Even if he is helpful, Gerdur will want to assist you."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Iora's smile is a timid thing and she sincerely thanks him, promising to deliver Ralof's message to his sister and her family before moving to join Hadvar at the town's edge. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"She is not overly impressed by her first view of the village that claims the title of town. There is a single road leading towards what can only be Whiterun. Along either side of it is hut-homes, sturdily built but small. Hadvar, ignoring the curious looks of the other inhabitants, makes a beeline for the first building on the left where a heavily-muscled blonde Nord pounds away on an anvil./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Uncle Alvor!" The man turns, wiping the sweat on his forehead with the back of his hand. His face lights up and he rushes to meet Hadvar, his hammer falling to the ground, forgotten. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Hadvar! What are you doing here, boy? Why aren't you with General -" The brunette shakes his head./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Not here. We need to get inside." He lowers his voice, looking around cautiously. His uncle nods once, then spots Iora. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Who is this, then? You haven't dishonored the girl, have you?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Hadvar looks alarmed. "What? No! She saved my life, actually."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Alvor accepts Hadvar's words, but still looks suspicious. "All right, then. Come inside, and I'll have Sigrid fix you something to eat. Then you can tell me why you look like you were on the business end of a mountain troll."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Actually, it was a bear," Iora chimes in as she follows the two men into the house. She seems to be doing that a lot, lately./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Alvor raises an eyebrow. "A bear?"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""... and several Stormcloaks, and a dragon." Iora finishes, collapsing in an undignified heap beside the hearth. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""A dragon?! She isn't drunk, is she?" The question is directed at Hadvar, who shakes his head./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""No, it's true, Uncle. A dragon has attacked Helgen. Burned the place to the ground. It was… horrific. Be glad you weren't there."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"A woman comes up a staircase to the far left of the house as Hadvar speaks. "Hadvar! What do you mean, a dragon attacked Helgen?" The firelight catches on her face, illuminating the fine lines in her brow. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Exactly that, Aunt Sigrid. A big, black scaly monster right out of the stories you read to me as a child." /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""A dragon, in Helgen? Then it could be here at any moment!" The woman looks at her husband, worry marring her face. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Sigrid, if there really is a dragon, wouldn't it have attacked Riverwood by now?" Alvor's words do much to calm his wife. Her expression smooths, but her eyes are still bright with fear./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""That's just the thing, Uncle," Hadvar cuts in. "The dragon flew over Helgen, set it aflame, and then flew off. It went in this direction, but we would know by now if it had stopped here or near here." /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""That much is true," Iora drawls, standing from where she'd been sitting. Sigrid lets out a tiny gasp as she spots the Breton, and Alvor watches her with eyes like chips of ice. Iora bows to the two, her injured hand kept against her heart and the other held out from her side. "Iora Allegra of House Telvanni of Morrowind, at your service. Your nephew saved me from both being executed and being burned alive in Helgen."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""That's not — You're not —" Sigrid seems to be at a loss for words./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Not a Dunmeri name? My mother's father was an Imperial. He liked the name, and so when I was born, he gave it to me." She gives a watery half-laugh, suddenly missing her home, her father. "My father is a Telvanni wizard. He raised me in Morrowind alongside my paternal cousins after my mother and my grandfather's family was slaughtered by Justiciars of the Aldmeri Dominion." /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"The mention of the Thalmor has even Hadvar's hackles rising. It is clear to see, for Iora, that though this family may be loyal to the Empire (Mede's Empire, not the Septim's, not any longer), they still harbor a deep mistrust of the Altmer supremacists. This knowledge makes being so far from what is familiar slightly more bearable. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"It is Sigrid, bless her heart, who speaks first after the long silence following Iora's words. "I am sorry for your loss, Iora of Telvanni. Losing a family member to the Dominion is never easy. And I apologize if my words offended you. I was only surprised."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Iora waves it off, giving Sigrid a genuine smile. "I am used to it." Her smile fades, though, as she remembers exactly how and why she came to be in this tiny house in a tiny town. "I… the dragon. It flew off this way, like Hadvar said, but I cannot for the life of me figure out how nobody saw it."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Alvor speaks up, saying, "I did hear Hilde yelling about seeing a dragon earlier." He looks like he has just eaten a lemon in the admitting of it, even so. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Sigrid rests a hand on his shoulder. "No one believes that woman, anyhow, husband. No-one can blame you for not doing so now."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Alvor seems bolstered by his wife's assurances. He turns to Iora now. "I would ask of you one thing, Iora of Telvanni: go to the Jarl, and tell him of this danger. Have him send soldiers to protect his people."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I was already planning on doing that," she quips sardonically before sobering. "But having a subject call for aid will add more credence to my news. I will do this, Alvor of Riverwood, and have men here to protect you by the end of the week."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Something in the blacksmith's bearing untenses, and he looks at the Breton with something — if not outright admiration — similar to respect. "Thank you," he says. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Iora inclines her head. "It is no trouble, truly. I actually have business in Whiterun. I, uh, got injured in the escape from Helgen." She gestures to the hand held close to her breast. I was hoping to see the priestess of Kynareth before I traveled on to my original destination."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""And where might that be, friend?" Alvor raises his voice as Sigrid begins fussing over Iora, rummaging in the drawers of a wardrobe for something to splint the hand with./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I was headed to the College of Winterhold, initially. That changed," she grimaces as Sigrid tightly binds her ring and little fingers together, "That changed when General Marcus Tullius invoked carnificum on those few crossing the Pale Pass into Skyrim."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Hadvar winces and his aunt and uncle look at her with blank expressions at the Imperial term. Iora sighs and begins to explain, "Carnificum is essentially when a military or political leader says, 'All of you are guilty, it does not matter if you are innocent, all people within a certain radius are sentenced to death.'"/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"Sigrid and Alvor look suitably unsettled./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""So, you're saying that General Tullius sentenced innocent people to die?" Alvor's voice is low and has a dangerous edge. Sigrid finishes tending to Iora's injury, and sets bowls of stew and a plate of bread in front of both Hadvar and the Breton./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Well, there were several Stormcloaks and a horse thief and your country's hero, Ulfric," Iora elaborates, dipping a chunk of bread in the broth. "I suppose to the general's mind that so long as Ulfric and his men were captured and brought to Imperial justice it did not matter who got caught in the crossfire./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""To be fair, a few lives in exchange for many is a logical trade," she continues, chewing thoughtfully. "But I am still deeply unhappy that I was caught up in it. I was meant to be meeting with my cousin at the College. I hate being late."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""At least rest here for the night," Sigrid says, gently running a hand over Iora's shoulder. "It is the least we can do for you for bringing Hadvar back home safe."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Thank you," the Breton says, swallowing thickly. Clearing her throat, she also twists to look out the window, not forgetting the promise she made to Ralof. It is nearly sundown. "I think, after I finish this - it is delicious, Sigrid, thank you - I will go for a stroll and familiarize myself with the area. I have not been somewhere so green in what seems a lifetime." Sigrid flushes, pleased with the praise, and Alvor laughs./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""I would imagine that it's a distinct change. Across the road is Lucan's shop, and next to it is the inn. Orgnar is usually manning the bar at this hour, and they have excellent mead there." He gives the information freely, but Iora cannot help but feel that she has not earned it. She thanks her hosts again ("It's not a problem, dear, now eat!" Sigrid orders her), and finishes her food quietly./span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"When she steps outside, Hadvar follows Iora as far as the doorway. "Gerdur and her family live in the house at the end of the road between Lucan's and the Sleeping Giant."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Thank you, Hadvar. Truly. Your family is very kind." He waves her off with an eye-roll and a grin. /span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Go speak with them, and maybe you'll catch me at the inn when you're done."/span/p  
p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-top: 0pt; margin-bottom: 0pt;"strong style="font-weight: normal;"span style="font-size: 11pt; font-family: Arial; color: #000000; background-color: transparent; font-weight: 400; font-style: normal; font-variant: normal; text-decoration: none; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;""Yes, da." Iora grins right back at the Nord and waves as she makes her way towards the home of Ralof's sister./span/strong/p 


End file.
